Carlos Zafon - The Midnight Palace

Michael stopped by the edge of a metal balustrade that jutted out over the void, vertically above the large clock under which they had passed when they entered the station. His artist’s eye appreciated the mesmerising effect created by the hundreds of curved beams issuing from the geometric centre of the dome. They seemed to vanish in an endless arc, never touching the floor. Viewed from that privileged position, the station seemed to rise towards the sky, spiralling into a vault of steel and glass that merged into the clouds above. Roshan joined Michael and took a brief look at the sight that was bewitching his friend.

‘We’re going to get dizzy. Come on, let’s go.’

Michael raised a hand in protest.

‘No, wait. Look down.’

Roshan took a quick peep over the balustrade.

‘If I look again, I’ll fall over.’

A mysterious smile appeared on Michael’s lips. Roshan stared at his friend, wondering what he had discovered.

‘Don’t you realise, Roshan?’

Roshan shook his head. ‘Explain it to me.’

‘This structure,’ Michael said. ‘If you look towards the vanishing point from this position in the dome, you’ll understand.’

Roshan tried to follow Michael’s instructions, but he didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to see.

‘What are you trying to tell me?’

‘It’s very simple. This station, the whole structure of Jheeter’s Gate, is an immense sphere. We can only see the part that emerges above ground. The clock tower is situated at the very centre of the dome, like a sort of radius.’

Roshan took in Michael’s words.

‘OK, it’s a stupid ball,’ he said. ‘So what?’

‘Do you realise the technical difficulties involved in building a structure like this?’ asked Michael.

Again his friend shook his head.

‘I assume they’d be considerable.’

‘Radical,’ Michael asserted, deploying an adjective he used in only the most extreme cases. ‘Why would anyone design a structure like this one?’

‘I’m not sure I want to know the answer,’ said Roshan. ‘Let’s go down a level. There’s nothing here.’

Michael gave a distracted nod and followed Roshan to the staircase.

Beneath the dome’s observation balcony was a kind of mezzanine level barely a metre and a half high flooded by the rainwater that had been falling over Calcutta since the beginning of May. The floor lay under about twenty centimetres of stagnant water, which gave off a nauseating stench, and was covered by a mass of mud and rubble that had been decomposing for more than a decade due to the continual seepage. After crouching down to enter the mezzanine, Michael and Roshan found themselves wading through the mud, which came up to their ankles.

‘This place is worse than the catacombs,’ said Roshan. ‘Why the hell is this ceiling so hellishly low? People haven’t been this small for centuries.’

‘It was probably a restricted area,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps it houses part of the counterweight system that supports the dome. Mind you don’t trip over anything. The whole place could collapse.’

‘Is that a joke?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael dryly.

‘Then it’s the third joke I’ve heard from you in six years,’ said Roshan. ‘And it’s the worst.’

Michael didn’t bother to reply and continued to make his way slowly through the swamp. The stench of stagnant water was beginning to fog his brain, and he started to think that perhaps they should turn back and descend one more level. Besides, he doubted that anything or anybody could be hidden in the impregnable quagmire.

‘Michael?’ Roshan’s voice was a few metres behind him.

The boy turned and saw Roshan’s figure bent over a large metal beam.

‘Michael,’ Roshan said again. He sounded bewildered. ‘Is it possible that this beam is moving or is it just my imagination?’

Michael thought his friend had also been inhaling the putrid vapours for too long and was about to abandon the area altogether when he heard a loud crash at the other end of the section. They turned to look at one another. The crash sounded again, only this time the boys felt a movement and then saw something speeding towards them under the mud, raising a wake of rubbish and dirty water. Without wasting a second, Roshan and Michael rushed towards the exit, crouching down as they negotiated their way through the mud and water.

They had only gone a few metres when the submerged object passed them at high speed, then doubled back and headed straight towards them. Roshan and Michael separated, running in opposite directions, trying to distract the attention of whatever was intent on hunting them down. The creature hidden beneath the mud divided into two halves, each half hurling itself after one of the boys.

Gasping for breath, Michael had turned to check if he was still being followed when his foot hit a step concealed under the sludge and he fell headlong into the mud. When he emerged and opened his eyes, which were stinging, a figure of mud was rising in front of him. Michael tried to pull himself up – but his hands skidded, leaving him stretched out in the slush.

The mud figure spread out two long arms, on the end of which were long fingers curved into large metal hooks. Michael watched in horror as the creature took form, a head emerging from the trunk, then a face with large jaws lined with fangs that were as long and sharp as hunting knives. Suddenly the figure solidified, the dry mud letting off a hiss of steam. When Michael stood up, he could hear the mud crackling as dozens of small fissures spread over it. The cracks on the face slowly expanded revealing Jawahal’s fiery eyes. The dry mud fractured into a mosaic of scales that quickly fell away. Jawahal grabbed Michael by the throat and pulled him in close.

‘Are you the artist?’ he asked, lifting Michael in the air.

Michael nodded.

‘Good,’ said Jawahal. ‘You’re in luck, my boy. Today you’ll see things that will keep your pencil busy for the rest of your life. Supposing, of course, you live long enough to draw them.’

As this was happening, Roshan ran towards the door, a rush of adrenalin burning through his veins. When he was only a couple of metres from the exit he jumped and landed on the clean, mudless surface of the outer gallery. Standing up, his first impulse was to keep running – the instincts acquired during the years of street thieving before he joined St Patrick’s were still there. But something stopped him. He’d lost sight of Michael when they separated inside the mezzanine and now he couldn’t even hear his friend shouting as he desperately tried to save himself. Ignoring his instincts, Roshan returned to the entrance of the low-ceilinged floor. There was no sign of Michael or of the creature that had pursued them. Roshan realised that his pursuer had gone after his friend.

‘Michael!’ he shouted at the top of his lungs.

His call received no reply.

Roshan gave a dejected sigh, wondering what his next step should be: should he go and look for the others, abandoning Michael to that place, or should he go back in and search for him? Neither option seemed to offer much hope of success, but before he could make the decision two long arms of mud emerged from the ground behind the door, aiming for his feet. Claws closed round his ankles. Roshan tried to free himself from their grip, but the arms tugged at him with such force they knocked him over and started to pull him back inside the mezzanine.

Of the five boys who had promised to meet under the clock, only Ian turned up at the appointed time. The station had never seemed so deserted, and he could hardly breathe from the anguish he felt, not knowing what had become of Seth and his friends. Alone in that ghostly cavern, it wasn’t hard to imagine that he was the only one who hadn’t fallen into the clutches of their sinister host.